What If This Storm Ends?
by rainbow letters
Summary: "North. You must go North to Whitehaven. I made sure I saved you a space little brother." London is burning. Society as we know it has fallen. Sherlock leaves the only place he has ever called home, with only the dying words of his brother for guidance. Although, he is not undertaking the journey alone.
1. Chapter 1

This has been sat in my drafts for well over a month now.

I finally had time to look at it properly with four days off work.

It's a lot darker than anything I've written previously, which I wanted to push myself to do.

I originally intended it to be a one-shot like all of my pieces. But I feel that this has scope to potentially develop into something more.

Summary: _N_ _orth. You must go North to Whitehaven. I made sure I saved you a space little brother._ London is burning. Society as we know it has fallen. Sherlock leaves the only place he has ever called home, with only the dying words of his brother for guidance. Although, he is not undertaking the journey alone.

* * *

The slow, rhythmic sound of the horses hooves echoed off of the churned tarmac through the stillness of the night. A stillness full of doubt, isolation and fear. It was not a sound one would wish to be companions with for fear of being driven mad. The fires that had haunted the skies were no longer, darkness had descended now. The London skyline was full of skeletons of buildings that once stood tall and proud. London was now a rotting corpse, it had nothing left to give or take. It was a sorry metaphor for the grim reality of the bodies of men, women and children littered in the streets.

With a gentle squeeze from his calves he encouraged the horse forwards towards the gate of Primrose Hill. The terrain softened underfoot and the cold, dull sound of concrete disappeared as the horse trudged through what was once green fields.

 _"North. You must go North to Whitehaven. The Government have ships in the Irish Sea. They will relocate you to the Scottish Isles. I made sure I saved you a space little brother."_

The dying last words of his elder sibling on the other end of the line. He was too late when the first bombs dropped. The elite were the first to be targeted. And of course Mycroft had known about the end. He had always known. Sherlock wondered that Mycroft had probably known his own fate too.

The woman that rested against his chest stretched lightly against him, pulling him from his thoughts. He moved the reigns into one hand as he gestured softly with his free left hand onto her left arm. Her petite frame drowned in his Belstaff. She winced slightly but understood the meaning and pulled back the sleeve of the coat. He gently pulled her wrist up to examine her bandages, which were heavily soiled.

"We need to change your dressing." He spoke hoarsely. The effects of the inhaled smoke and ash resonated in his voice.

"Not until we are out of London." She croaked and pushed the sleeve of the coat back down over her arm. He held onto her wrist a little to longer than he should have.

"That will take most of the night with the route we are taking. It will get infected if we leave it much longer." He spoke firmer, despite her valid reasoning.

"We don't have a choice." She declared abruptly.

 _I can't lose you too._

Those were the words that threatened to burst from his lips. They were the last. The last of what felt like the entire of humanity. A city with a population of over eight and a half million reduced to single digits in one day.

She had been in the morgue when the end of civilisation began. She was his first priority. His only priority. Sherlock felt like he was living the entire age of the earth in those few moments when the chaos started. He knew. He had always known that he would put the woman in his arms before any other person on the earth. Before Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, John, Rosie. He shook his head. He couldn't let the guilt consume him now. He didn't know John's fate, but he was too rational to hold onto any sort of hope for him.

He had found her under a small mound of debris when he arrived at the remains of the morgue. Barely conscious, but alive and his heart skipped a beat in that moment. Her arm mangled from the impact of a collapsed ceiling tile. He had dressed it as best he could with supplies they had found in the shell of what was Bart's hospital. He remained calm enough to collect as much as they could carry on horse back, and flung her over his shoulder and through the rapidly decaying structure of the hospital.

 _Why?_

Why did he bother to run and save her. He already had little hope towards survival. What has he holding out for? He realised he had acted on instinct when he went to find her. Rationality didn't get a chance for a look in. He couldn't help but think that if he hadn't started fucking her, she would be a rotting corpse in Bart's morgue right now.

 _Oh the irony._

He allowed himself to revel in his memories. His teeth grazing the mole on her pubis, nestled in the valley of her left thigh. How her small breasts would pop rhythmically as he fucked her into the sideboard. The feel of her finger nails tearing the flesh across his shoulders as he rammed into her. The sound she would make as she inhaled when she was close to release. God the sound of her taking in a minutes worth of breaths in just one second, like the beating of a hummingbirds wings. It was enough to undo him every single time.

 _Stop._

He repressed the memory. The unsettling thoughts. That particular feeling he felt when she was in his arms and their bodies unionised. Maybe it would have been easier if he had left her. Made the journey North alone.

He looked down at the woman in his arms again. Fuck she still looked beautiful. Her bright yellow summer dress peeped through from under his coat. How ironic that the day England went up in flames was the hottest day of the year. Her shoulder length hair covered in ash and streaked with blood. She had cut it short the day after their first encounter. A symbolic gesture he hadn't quite figured out. Yet, still enough there for him to reach over and fist in his palms as he pounded into her from behind, over her breakfast bar.

 _Enough._

He pulled sharply on the reigns, bringing the horse to a sudden stop. He dismounted as his leather brogues landed in the churned and wet mud.

"Sherlock." She spoke sharply, but he ignored her.

He rummaged through one of the backpacks mounted on the side of the saddle and withdrew a roll of bandage and a bottle of saline solution.

"Give me your hand." He ordered as he gestured with his free hand.

"Sherlock, please we need to get out of the city." She protested as she shrugged further into his coat.

"Yes, which we will commence with once you have given me your arm." He spoke agitatedly.

Molly sighed, turned her head and reluctantly held out her arm. Even on horse back his height still offered him a good view of her wound. He watched as she quickly glanced back towards him as he placed the bandage roll and bottle into the pocket of the Belstaff.

"Hold the sleeve up, please." He ordered, as he pushed the sleeve up and tried to not get distracted when her fingers lightly traced over his own as she obeyed his instruction.

He started to undress the soiled bandage, with one hand as he cupped the back of her hand with the other. He sighed slightly as he assessed the wound. The bleeding had reduced slightly but he knew she needed stitches. His first priority was getting the wound cleaned and bandaged again.

He set to work and took a pocket knife from his trouser pocket and made an incision into the fabric of his once white blouse. Her attention became focused on him at the sound of tearing fabric. He doused the wound with the solution, and he noticed Molly's arm twitched as it stung her skin. With the scrap of material in his hands he gently patted the skin dry. Red bled into white as he repeatedly dapped the improvised cloth on her tender skin. He caught her eye as he dressed the wound with a clean bandage, she seemed mesmerised in the way he wound the roll around her skin. He tried to focus on the task but couldn't help but notice how dainty her wrists were as his fingers enclosed around them. He hadn't observed them enough that time he had her pressed hard and flat into the shower tiles as he pinned her arms above her head.

"Sherlock."

He blinked as she roused him from his thoughts. Her dark brown eyes boring into his own.

"You're running out of bandage. Just finish it off and lets get going." He nodded once and quickly finished his task.

He placed the remaining roll and the saline solution back into the rucksack and promptly mounted himself back into the saddle. Just before he picked up the reigns he felt Molly's hand rest on his own.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She spoke softly.

He squeezed the horse on as it set back off in a steady rhythm. He felt Molly settle herself back into his chest after a few minutes. Through the thick cloud above, the briefest of moonlight fought through illuminating the darkened wasteland. He couldn't help but look down at her pale complexion in the dim light. God despite every fibre of his body screaming at him to focus he couldn't help but indulge. He needed to indulge. So he turned his head and let his lips ghost against her temple. Before he knew it his lips and nose were pressed against her and he squeezed her a little tighter between his arms. He saw the smallest of twitches at the corner of her mouth and he swiftly withdrew. He lamented at the coolness of the night as it replaced the warmth of her body on his lips.

He pushed the horse onwards into the darkening night, to their aim of reaching the North Circular, before continuing their journey North on the M1. He turned back one last time to gaze upon the city he loved. The only place he had ever called home. London had always been enough. The hustle and bustle. The sinners and the saints. How terrifying that two thousand years of history and culture had crumbled and evaporated in just one day.

He couldn't bare to even think of the word future. A future without London. It was almost enough to retrieve his gun from his waistband and end place the barrel against the back of his throat and pull the trigger. He felt Molly adjust herself in his arms and Sherlock closed his eyes and looked up to the blackened clouds. Yet, he would heed his brother's last words. He didn't believe in hope, but bloody hell it was all he had to hold onto now. A hope that they would make it to Whitehaven alive.

 _And then what?_

A life living out the rest of his days on some God forsaken Scottish Island. Was it really worth it? Maybe he would just have to hope that one day in his lifetime they would be able to return to home one day. To some reborn and new London. God, he could hardly believe how pathetic he felt. That it had really come down to hope. A hope for survival. A hope for a new life.

 _What about Her?_

He froze as his conscience interrupted his thoughts. In all honesty he truly had no idea. But he knew that he was glad that in this moment he was not alone. That she was still alive. Whether at the end of it all she would be grateful to him for saving her life or resent him for making her live through such misery and despair. He just did not know. For now he was going to take it one day at a time. Tomorrow is a new day, so they say. And if after all of this she can find some peace and a slice of happiness, then it might just be worth it after all.

* * *

As mentioned before, I am 70% certain I will continue this story.

I still have a lot of work to do with fleshing out the plot, but it's a challenge I think I am ready for.

Thank you for reading.

As always your thoughts and comments are always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, so chapter 2 is up.

I did plan on having this posted at the weekend, but I was insanely hungover yesterday and felt like death was imminent, so my apologies.

I am also aware this chapter is **_extremely _** short. The other chapters will be much longer but for the sake of the story, this one is on the short side.

* * *

Sherlock stood waist deep in the cool shallows of the reservoir. Dawn was breaking, as the clouds transformed from deep black to ominous grey. It would be days before they saw sunlight again as the smog and smoke haunted and masqueraded the summer morning sky. He placed his hands on the back of his neck. The coolness of the water against his hot skin made him groan slightly. It was going to be a warm day again he sensed from the stillness of the air.

He cupped his hand underneath the water and splashed his face, chest and hair with the cooling liquid. It wasn't his intention to bathe when they arrived here in Watford this morning, but he had an overwhelming need to cleanse his body of the remains London which clung to his skin.

He looked over his shoulder to where Molly laid curled sleeping under his coat on the grassy bank, the chestnut mare grazing beside her. They had made the decision to rest for an hour or two. His arse was sore from hours spent in the saddle, he wasn't as used to riding like he was back in his school days and he welcomed the brief interlude.

He had watched as she stitched her own arm up. She refused his help, saying that she could do it with her eyes closed so he sat on the bank and observed silently instead. Relief overcame him as she completed the final thread, with the risk of infection much less of a concern. It wasn't neat by any means and he knew it would eventually leave a faint scar upon her skin. But that was the least of their worries he had told himself, when he restrained from making a comment about her self-stitching ability.

They shared half of an energy bar between them. He had managed to pack a bag full of survival food in the carnage. Mrs Hudson's cupboards were raided for nuts, beans, tinned food and rice. Anything that was easily transportable and relatively nutritional. She had left on the morning of that fated day to meet a friend for tea at a nearby cafe. When the chaos descended, Sherlock knew she wouldn't be coming back.

He dunked himself under the cool depths in an attempt to erase the memory from his mind. He held himself under until his lungs screamed with desperation. He gasped as he surfaced. The only sound for miles around was his heart pulsing in his ear drums.

He waded back towards the shore and towards the bank and his abandoned pile of clothes. He shook out his dark curly locks of any excess water and then proceeded to pull up his boxers. It was then out of the corner of his eye he saw Molly's eyes watching him through half closed eyelids. He kept his gaze locked with her own as he shrugged on the remains of his shirt and pulled up his trousers. She glanced away as he secured the last button in place. He secured his belt buckle and looked over to where she laid, her eyes staring lifelessly into the sky.

"We should make a move. We need to take advantage of the daylight as best we can." He mounted the saddle onto the horses back and secured the girth.

"I never even asked where you are taking us. I mean I assumed Scotland, that's what people would do in the movies right?" She asked quietly, unmoved from her spot on the floor.

"Whitehaven, in Cumbria. Apparently the Navy have ships waiting." He proceeded to attach the bags to the hooks on the saddle.

"Mycroft, is he waiting for you there?" He stopped suddenly, gripping the leather strap tightly in his hand. His silence gave her the answer she was looking for. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I- " She was behind him then. Her hand placed on the back of his shoulder.

"Come on, we need to get moving." He shrugged her hand away, as he roughly handled her up and into the saddle. He heard her hiss in pain as he pushed her upwards. He finished adjusting the straps and seated himself behind her and took up the reigns.

...

They travelled in silence for a majority of the morning along the motorway. Molly had shrugged herself out of his coat, which she had worn like a second layer of skin since yesterday. He traced the purple bruises which littered her arms with his eyes. He imagined how helpless she must have felt as the roof caved in around her.

"Sherlock, stop. Look, over there." Molly cried out, her hand squeezed firmly on Sherlock's arm.

In the distance he saw a lone figure in the distance, about 100 meters up the road. From what he could make out they were limping severely. He pulled the horse to a stop.

"Maybe we should help them." Molly turned in the saddle to look back towards Sherlock.

"No." His voice was low and firm. "It doesn't look like they are going to last much longer. They will only drain our supplies."

"You are despicable. There is a person there who clearly needs our help." Her tone was venomous and her gaze was cold as she stared at him.

"And then what Molly? Do you plan on swapping places with him and walking the rest of the way to Whitehaven? He's as good as dead and we don't need to worry about having another mouth to feed."

It was at that moment, that the figure ahead collapsed in a heap.

The air grew thick and silent around them, before Molly snatched the reigns from Sherlock's hands and kicked the mare forward. Sherlock wrestled to take back the control, but by the time he took over the reigns once more they were only yards from the fallen figure. He pulled the horse to a sudden halt, and flung himself off the saddle.

"Stay here." Here spoke sharply at her, and not a moment after his back had turned to her she was on her feet running past him to the body on the ground. His anger flared as he watched her make the checks for any vital signs.

"Are you deaf? I said stay on the bloody horse!" He started to march towards her.

"He's dead, Sherlock." He remained silent as he walked behind where she was crouched next to the man. He was fairly old. Late sixties, Sherlock deduced from the lines on his face and greying hair. She removed her fingers from his neck, walked back towards the horse and mounted herself in the saddle. Sherlock stood next to the body for a while. Then he squatted down and started to search through the man's pockets.

"Sherlock! Do you have any decency?" She shouted from the saddle.

"Decency? The world as we know it has ended and you still want to talk about decency. This is the game called survival now, Molly. And as much as you don't want to play, you don't have a choice." His voice was composed as he spoke to the lifeless body before him.

He retrieved a wallet from the man's trouser pocket. A family photo with beaming smiles greeted him as he flipped the wallet open. He took out the photo and placed it on the man's chest and brought the man's lifeless hands over the photo. The maroon knitted cardigan the man had bundled in his hands laid beside him. Sherlock picked it up and walked back over to Molly.

"Have you finished grave robbing?" She asked coldly. He shoved the cardigan into her lap.

"Take this. The days may be warm but the nights will be cold." He ignored her remark and mounted back into the saddle behind her.

They sat in an awkward silence. Molly purposefully sat forward so as little of their bodies touched. Her hands clutched at the knitted cardigan, her small dainty fingers stroked soft lines back and forth over the fibers. Her compassion for others was once an admirable skill. Now it was as dangerous as stupidity and a lack of common sense, Sherlock thought to himself.

"I'm just trying to ensure our survival here, Molly. It's your choice whether you want to resent me for that." He watched as her head bowed in front of him.

"I don't resent you, Sherlock. It's just that this is just so-" She choked out a sob as the reality of the situation set in. And there was nothing that he could say to comfort her. No words he could offer her to relieve her anguish.

"Come on, let's get going." He whispered as they turned away from the body on the floor. He pushed the horse forwards and by the time he had wrestled with his mind whether to look back or not, the body had already disappeared from sight.

* * *

Thank you for reading.

It's going to get pretty dark in the next few chapters so bring a torch.


	3. Chapter 3

First of all, apologies for it taking almost a month to post this chapter.

I wrote it, and I was ready to rock and roll, when I gave it a final read through and realised I hated it.

Then something called life happened and I haven't been in a position to focus on writing.

Alas, here is Chapter 3. Chapter 4 is already partially written, so I will be updating again this week.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes cracked open as he felt a distinct warmth, which ran across his cheek and over the bridge of his nose. The offending light caused him to close his eyes tightly at the brightness which bored into eyes. The realisation hit him a moment later, when he registered the source; sunlight.

He sprang upright from his spot on the forest floor and held his hands up to the light which zigged zagged from the canopy and into scattered spotlights all around the forest floor. He revelled as the light hit his palm and he embraced the warmth on his hand. One week after the event which changed everything. One week since Sherlock had last seen or felt sunlight. The clouds of smoke and pollution had finally lifted and for the first time in seven days, Sherlock let slip the smallest of smiles.

He felt Molly stir beside him, her hands rubbed her eyes as she roused from her sleep. Her eyes blinked in offence just as his had done moments before. He waited for her reaction and he watched as her large brown eyes opened wide.

"Sunlight, it's actual sunlight Sherlock!" Her voice cracked with sleep, yet it seemed to dance as she wiggled her fingers as the light moved animatedly on her illuminated hand.

"Yes, it seems the clouds have finally lifted." He continued to watch her. Her pale face held the happiness of past memories. Suddenly, her face dropped and her smile was replaced with the familiar look of sadness he was so acquainted with.

"I suppose we should get moving, shouldn't we?" Sherlock looked at her from where she sat next to him. Her voice was almost robotic, and it stunned him slightly how alike him she sounded. For the past week the only form of conversation between the two of them had been Sherlock barking commands at her.

She stood up and brushed the remnants of the ground from her dress. Her dark brown locks glowed with tints of amber as she fixed her hair into a messy bun on top of her head. The sunlight illuminated her whole frame and at that moment Sherlock had never seen anything more mesmerising in his whole existence. Sherlock mentally noted he needed to find them both some more practical clothing, as soon as the opportunity arose.

"Let's eat first. I was thinking of using the last of the flames from the fire to warm some beans up." Molly stopped in her tracks, as he spoke. "That is unless you prefer them cold, then I'm perfectly happy to eat on the move." She glanced back to him, where he still sat on the ground smirking up at her.

"A little sunlight is all it takes to dislodge the stick from up your arse, is it?" She jestered back at him, and they both shared a friendly glance.

"Perhaps so. Now grab a tin from the satchel before I change my mind."

...

The early morning progressed pleasantly. Molly sat beside Sherlock on his coat, his Belstaff was seeing more use as a floor mat than as of an actual coat as of late. As they sat beside the dying fire, their stomachs now sated, Molly instigated the conversation. The sun had brightened both of their moods it seemed.

"You know, I still have a million questions from that day, but the one that has puzzled me most is where on Earth did you find a horse?" She laughed as she spoke, and drew patterns in the earth with a stick she had found beside her.

"I found her as I was coming to rescue you." He felt Molly stiffen beside him. A week on and they had both barely spoken about the events that happened on that day. He continued on with his story, aware of the slight awkwardness that had befallen them.

"I assumed she had came from Hyde Park Stables, the small riding school by Paddington station. She was fully tacked but had managed to get her reigns tangled in the railings. She almost landed a kick to the crown jewels, but fortunately I managed to calm her down enough." Sherlock scratched the back of his head.

"I never took you for a horse man. Let me guess, you learnt during your boarding school days?" Molly asked inquisitively. It was clear she was using the good mood Sherlock was in to her advantage.

"Yes, we were encouraged to choose some form of enrichment in addition to our studies. Horse Riding was one the extracurricular activity options, so I made the choice to learn the skill. More for the fact that it didn't really involve 'people'. Turned out to be pretty useful in the end." He sighed in memory.

"I can't say I've ever been a huge fan of horses. Dad was allergic to them so I never really got much exposure to them. Not that my parents could have afforded lessons anyways." Molly shrugged her shoulders and looked back towards the tethered mare.

"Well, you should be a huge fan of her. I doubt that I never would have made it to you in time without her." The words were out of his mouth without thinking them through. Molly looked down to the floor, the stick laid inanimate in her hands as she pressed it into the ground.

"Thank you, Sherlock. For saving me, for everything. I don't think I would have survived this week on my own. I know I've been difficult, but I haven't felt like myself since, well, you know." She smiled up at him, a small but sad smile and her hand came over to squeeze his knee in a comforting gesture. It was at that moment, the small space between them seemed infinite.

He noticed her hand lingered a little too longer than she intended and when she pulled it away he snatched it into his own without a thought. She looked to him, both with shock mirrored on their faces at his rash action. He felt like every moment they had shared was crammed into those few seconds. He remembered the first time they had indulged in each others bodies, more out of a primal need than an emotional one. Shamelessly he crawled back to her time and time again like she was nothing but a good hit from a dirty needle.

Her face was so close and he wasn't sure if it was her or him who had initiated the move. He watched as Molly seemed suspended in time. Her eyes closed softly and her lips parted ever so slightly and so invitingly that Sherlock felt the uncomfortable tightness in his pants. All he had to do was move his face forward a few inches to claim her mouth. He could imagine it now. Her body pressed into the earth, her pretty dress pushed up to her waist, his cock pressed hard inside her and his mouth covering her own to stifle her screams.

He snapped back to reality, and scrambled to his feet shaking off the remnants of the forest and his dirty memories onto the floor. He didn't even look down to acknowledge Molly's reaction. He already knew she'd feel rejection. His cock twitched in protest as he rubbed his hands through his bedraggled curly locks. He let out a small groan to try and relieve some of his lust but he knew it would do little extinguish the burning inside of him.

He moved towards the tethered mare, when he felt a distinct pressure against his back, which caused him to stumble forward lightly and grab the trunk of the tree in front of him to steady himself. When he turned round he saw Molly stood in the spot he had occupied just moments ago, her brows furrowed, fists clenched and her chest heaving heavily.

"You fucking bastard." She breathed out haggardly, her eyes were full of rage. "Every damn time, God I know I should know better by now. You just don't give a shit do you?" She raised her clenched fist towards him in anger.

"Clearly. That's why I didn't leave you dead under a pile of rubble, whilst John-" he answered nonchalantly. The sting against his cheek, which followed his response stunned him temporarily as her hand swept across his face sharply.

"Don't. Don't you dare bring him into this now. How dare you try and guilt me." Sherlock looked down upon her small frame who currently embodied the spirit of a grizzly bear.

"I'm not guilting you." Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth. "What do you want me to say?"

The look of pure anger channelled through her eyes and she launched herself at him, her fists pounded against him. Sherlock restrained her wrists after begrudging her a couple of blows to the chest. She struggled against his hold as she weakened against him, her anger gave way to sadness as she started to sob hysterically. No longer seeing her as a threat he dropped her arms as she fell forward against his torso. He held her tightly against him as her limbs had temporarily turned to jelly.

"I feel like we are the only two people on the Earth right now, and in this last week with you I have never felt so invisible." She whispered and pushed back against him, standing cross armed in front of him with her head bowed down.

"I'm sorry if I have offended you Molly. But, I have already told you my intention is to get us both to Whitehaven. I'm not here to entertain you or offer you companionship." He stepped around her and towards the remainder of the belongings, which were yet to be loaded onto the horse.

"Why would you save me at all? Go on. Tell me why you saved me over John." The way she asked him took him back to that moment at Sherringford. When she asked him to tell her he loved her first.

"You were closer. I thought I would have time to save you and then go to John." He lied, yet his voice was bold with conviction.

"I was closer?" It was then that Molly looked right into him and he felt unhinged.

"Yes. But it's irrelevant now isn't it? The who's, what's and why's. The past cannot be changed." He regretted the words the moment they left his lips and he saw a lone tear slide down Molly's cheek.

"No. You're right, it can't be changed Sherlock." She all but whispered, her head hung low in defeat.

She stood quietly against the tree trunk as he finished packing the last of their belongings. An uncomfortable silence passed between them but Sherlock didn't show it. As he brought the horse over towards where she stood she turned and started walking away towards the fire pit.

"Molly." He called out sternly, with a tone indicating for her to get on top of the horse.

"I am going to walk for a while." With that she scooped up a pile of earth from the ground, where it was softest at the root of a tree and doused it over the dying fire. The hearth released a hiss as the embers turned from bright hues of yellow and orange to deep blood reds. She clapped her hands of the excess dirt and turned to walk towards the opening to the clearing. He mounted the horse and urged the mare forwards to close the space between them.

...

They walked in silence for hours, Molly refused to take a seat up in the saddle. The sun was at it's peak in the sky, when the pair encountered an impenetrable pile up of cars. Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh, they would have to divert. There was no way a horse would be able to manoeuvre between the vehicles. He picked out the compass in his trouser pocket and begun to close his eyes. He visualised their exact location based on road signs and landmarks they had walked past. His mind scanning the vast maps he had memorised to try and figure out the best diversion.

He wasn't aware how much time had passed, since he had entered his mind palace. A common side effect. But he was roused by a noise in the distance of the sound of something hard hitting against metal. The distinct ting sound echoed through the silence. He observed Molly, who was only a couple of metres ahead looking into the windows of the abandoned cars. The sound hadn't come from her, she was much too close. She started to walk towards the next car further away, when Sherlock felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Molly. Stop." He bellowed to her. His veins ran cold as he jumped to the assumption that they were not alone. She defied his orders and proceeded to walk to the next car, either unaware or uncaring of the noise that had alarmed him moments before.

He was about to call her again as she looked inside the open window of a large people carrier, when two hooded figures ran out from the other side of the car to grab Molly. She let out a squeal of alarm as she wrestled against their hold. Sherlock was on his feet in an instant but before he could even reach her, he felt a dull throbbing ache at the back of his head.

 _Shit. An ambush._

He turned his head slightly to see a hooded figure behind him holding a metal bar. His vision started to blur and his head grew woozy. He clambered towards her blurred outline, only to find his knees grazing against the cold hard tarmac. He called out to her again, his vision faded but he could hear her screams of terror. He felt another brief sharp pain to his temple before the world faded to black.

* * *

As always, you're comments are always appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry, I lied.

I intended to upload this week, but then every single one of my plans today fell by the wayside so I've spent roughly 14 hours working on this chapter today.

I love Sundays.

Word of warning: This chapter contains some violence and abuse. A word of warning for those who require it.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to a soft pair of wet lips, snuffling over his face. He raised his hands at the intrusion when he felt the sharp pain in his head. He let out a hiss as his brain acknowledged the sting. It was then that he remembered why he was lying here on the cold hard tarmac.

 _Molly._

He clambered to his feet, unsteady and dizzy from the blow to his head. He steadied himself against the mare who had been the one to awaken him moments before. He moved his hand to the back of his head, which was matted with dried blood. He let out a growl of confusion and anger. They had taken Molly. He didn't want to ponder on the reason why. Yet, it gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach.

A little more aware of his surroundings, he realised the sun was setting and he had around half an hour of sunlight left. He staggered over to the car where Molly had been grabbed, desperate to find some sort of clue to her whereabouts.

It was then that he saw it, a distinct line of blood marked on the car. He traced his finger over the dried blood where her own dainty fingers had graced hours before. He rolled his head back up to the sky and released a sigh. She was wounded and he had no idea how badly she was hurt.

 _Come on_. _Now is not the time for pondering._ He told himself and he breathed deeply as he embraced full deduction mode as he studied the scene.

There must be something else here. Footprints. Fabric. Marks. For the first time in a long time he felt panicked. The light was fading and Molly had been taken from him with no indication as to where the gang had taken her. It was then that he saw it on a car a few vehicles ahead. Another line of blood. He jogged to the car and looked at the similar horizontal line that appeared on the previous car. He let out a small smile.

 _Clever girl._

Even when she was being kidnapped, she had kept a level head. They had obviously injured her in the attack. But by God, was she using it to her advantage. He spent the next few minutes walking between the cars, as he observed that she had marked light coloured cars with a line of her blood. Even in the dark he would be able to see the smear against the paint work.

 _A trail._

This meant they were on foot. Which was a relief as he knew they couldn't have covered that much ground. He estimated using the setting sun, that he had been out for around four hours. Molly was wounded which meant they wouldn't be able to travel at speed if she was walking. They could only have covered a couple of miles at the most. He was about to turn to continue following the blood trail Molly had left him, when he heard the whinny behind him.

 _Of course._

He turned slowly back towards the mare and gave her a scratch on her nose.

"You have been most helpful old girl. Alas, this is where our paths meet a crossroads." He spoke sadly as his hands roughed her mane.

He removed the saddle and bags from her first, placing as much as he could into the two large rucksacks. He then removed her bridle and gave her a firm pat on the neck.

"So long my friend. Go on. Go. You have been relieved from your duty." With that he gave the horse a firm smack to the rear and the mare startled, bolting down the road and into the setting sun. Sherlock watched until she galloped out of sight, before turning to pick up the bags and placing them on his back. He followed back down the road in the opposite direction, watching out for that smear of blood, which he hoped would lead him back to Molly.

…

Three days. Three whole days of searching and loose ends. The last trail of blood he had found was smeared on a sign at the end of a junction. Then there was nothing. He had doubled back on himself more times than he could count and his frustration had reached boiling point.

He sat in front of the last clue once more. His head in his hands, when he saw something glisten in the moonlight. He picked himself up and walked to the item, which had caught his eye. His heart stopped when he realised what it was. A gold charm from Molly's bracelet. She hadn't stopped giving him signs; she changed the signs she was giving him.

He realised that she must have had to change tactics once they left the main road. He grew angry at himself for becoming complacent. Three whole days and who's to say she wasn't dead by now. He held the gold charm firmly in his clenched palm before placing it in his pocket. He followed the side road off of the junction where the charm had indicated for him to follow.

He continued for a mile and a half using the small charms as beacons, collecting them in his pocket as he went. He grew frustrated again when it had been twenty minutes since he last saw a charm or any indication of her, when he saw a familiar streak of blood plastered over a street sign.

In the distance he heard laughter. He slunk into the shadows next to a garden wall. He was certain nobody had seen him, and he trained his ears to the source of the noise. He peered from behind the wall to look down into the road, where the source of the noise came from. Two men were stood outside the front of the only standing semi-detached house in the street. They were smoking against a parked car, and the smell of cannabis hit his nostrils. He realised these were the same two men who had grabbed Molly in the ambush, and he felt a contained excitement that he may have finally found her.

He focused on the task of entering the property, without raising any alarms. Sherlock had counted five men in the ambush, but knew that they could be more uncounted for. He knew his best course of entry would most likely be to the rear. He looked behind and noticed that there was a woodland, which backed onto the row of properties, which would give him adequate cover. He also made note of the Ford Fiesta at the end of the street with its door open and keys still in the ignition. He dumped the bags by the wall and with the grace of a street cat he clambered up the wall and into the garden of the first property, out of sight of the gang.

Once he was in the first garden, he headed to the rear fence to where the trees started. His body was fully pumped by now. His mind solely focused on retrieving Molly from the house. He silently stalked around the back of the houses. Using the sounds of laughter and voices to guide him to the property. He widened his path, slinking further into the trees in case anyone was guarding out back. But he quickly learned this gang didn't seem too concerned about trespassers.

He approached the back end of the house. He observed quietly for ten minutes, until he was completely sure nobody was guarding the back. Once he was confident he was in the clear he clambered the fence swiftly and silently. There were two extra men, who weren't part of the original ambush who he could see in the candle lit lounge. That made it seven overall. They were all too preoccupied with the lines of coke on the coffee table to notice his presence in the garden. He took cover behind the garden bins and assessed the lounge once more. Molly definitely wasn't downstairs. His eyes glanced upwards to the right bedroom window. A low glow shone through the crack in the dark curtains.

The only issue now was getting into the house unseen. The bathroom window was open ajar, but he doubted his tall frame would fit through the gap. Nevertheless, it was the only viable option. There was an extension to the rear, with a flat roof that would give Sherlock the perfect route into the house. Silently, he moved the bin towards the side of the extension, and climbed up onto the roof when he heard the patio doors open.

"Here, take a drag of this. This is the really good shit!" Sherlock heard a voice from below. He laid flat on his back hoping the men didn't wander too far down the garden enough to spot him. Luckily, it seemed they were happy leaning against the extension wall.

"Seems like a good idea, doesn't it? Give us some leverage over those pricks in the North. Well, if they're still alive anyways." Sherlock, struggled to understand the meaning behind the man's sentence.

"Of course, they is alive, man! Won't be long before they are sweeping the rest of the country up. We'll be alright when we move on to Jonny's crib man. We'll be sorted for life mate! Nobody will be able to break into that shit." Sherlock's heart thumped in his ears as he listened to the conversation below.

"Fuck this shit is good. Even better, when you have a tight cunt to ride your high out with." The two men laughed, and Sherlock felt the blood run cold in his veins.

"Man, the other night, breaking her in. Fuck me, I've never had that much fun in my life." Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried not to think of Molly at the hands of seven scumbags. His thoughts were interrupted by a third voice.

"You two, get your fucking arses back inside. I need to talk to you." There was a slight scuffling below and then the patio doors shut and the garden fell silent once more.

Sherlock sat up as he looked up towards the bathroom window. He had to get Molly out tonight. He had a feeling this gang weren't going to be hanging round here for much longer.

He silently stood and treaded over to the bathroom window. Despite his size he still needed to pull himself up and onto the ledge. He used the wide drainage pipe below him to boost himself up. His hands swung onto the open frame as he pulled himself up to balance with one foot on the ledge.

He assessed the dark bathroom and pushed himself through the gap. He swung his legs in first, careful to not knock any items off of the window ledge below him. Once his feet were firmly placed he squeezed the rest of his body through the window. Carefully and quietly he jumped down onto the toilet seat and then to the bathroom floor. He shook out his coat and hair and pressed his back firmly against the bathroom door and waited. More laughter came from downstairs and Sherlock decided to make his move and opened the door cautiously.

He held his breath as he listened to see if anyone had noticed his intrusion. He noticed the door she laid behind was open slightly and he slowly crept towards the room. As he pushed it open he saw her laid before him. Her body was covered by a thin white sheet, splattered with specks of blood and her hair fanned out against the pillow. Sherlock gulped as he stepped forward and watched her stir. She was naked. His stomach dropped and his anger soared as he tried not to think about what they had put her through the past three days. As she woke she clearly didn't recognise him and clambered away in total fear to the other side of the bed with the sheet held tight around her. She was devastatingly pale, she also sported a nasty looking black eye on her left side and her forearms were peppered in bruises.

"It's me. Molly. It's me, Sherlock." He whispered and reached out to her simultaneously, his long arm spanning the bed towards her.

She whimpered and Sherlock realised she had been drugged. Her pupils were wide, her body slicked in sweat and her heart rate rapid. She watched him carefully, as she tried to pick through her clouded memories to place the man in front of her. Her eyes widened as her brain recognised the man in front of her. The sheet forgotten as she burrowed into his arms.

"Come on. We need to get you out of here." He held her naked frame tight to his torso, but before she could nod in agreement, a rough male voice shouted from downstairs.

"Where is that bitch? I need a good fuck."

They both stared at each other in panic. Sherlock was not about to watch her get raped, but at the same time they would both be killed if they found him here.

"Don't worry. I won't let them hurt you again. Just trust me, okay?" She nodded, as a tear slid from her eye as she dropped back to the bed.

Moments later, with Sherlock's tall frame hidden in the wooden wardrobe, watching her from the slightest crack in the door, heavy footsteps made their way up the stairs. He heard the door creak as the figure entered the room.

"You. If you cry on me again like you did last time, I will fuck the tears out of you." Sherlock tried to ignore the comment and observed what he could of the man. He was middle aged, bald and severely overweight. As he stripped down he noticed the tattoos, which laced his body. Prison tattoos. He was a man of some authority during his time inside. He also noticed he was heavily intoxicated. His words were sloshed, and his movement unbalanced, with gave Sherlock an advantage.

"Come here, you slut." He grabbed Molly and flipped her onto her stomach her bare arse raised in the air. "About time someone here gave you a proper fucking." He picked up the belt and lashed it against her backside three times. She cried out in pain and just as the man was about to position himself at her entrance, she felt him withdraw. In moments the belt, which was in the man's hands was now around his neck. He clambered with his hands behind his head to try and lash out at his attacker, but Sherlock kicked him in the back of the knees as he fell to the bed. Molly scrambled out of the way as Sherlock tightened the belt. Molly had never seen him so possessed with a murderous rage in his eyes. The fat brute kicked out and thrashed for what felt like eternity. Eventually, he stilled as Sherlock collapsed on top of him. His teeth bared and clenched together as his hands shook.

"Sherlock." She whispered and shakily held her hand out to rest on his shoulder. His eyes shot up towards her and she suddenly realised her nakedness under his glare. He seemed to understand her discomfort and shook himself from his fury and pulled a large plain white t- shirt from the wardrobe behind him. She quickly pulled it over her head and noticed he had taken off his Belstaff to offer to her.

"Put this on, quickly. They will grow curious soon, when they realise the noise has stopped." She followed his instructions as he led her out quietly on to the landing. He knew their best option was the front door. He didn't have time to sneak them both out the back.

He carefully descended the stairs, Molly clinging ferociously to his side. They were five voices coming from the lounge downstairs, which left one man unaccounted for. He took his chances as he opened the front door, when a man in a grey hoody rounded the corner from the side gate. Sherlock was first to react with a bone crunching punch to the face. The man let out a shout as the two men scrapped.

"Molly! Run. Fucking run." He lost focus temporarily, when he remembered Molly behind him. The man undercut his jaw sending Sherlock staggering back. It was then that he heard the commotion from inside. With a sharp kick from his long leg, he sent the man tumbling into the hedge behind him and he picked up Molly who had frozen to the spot. Suddenly, there was a gang of men chasing them, but Sherlock never looked back as his long legs thundered against the tarmac.

Sherlock remembered the vehicle at the street entrance as he ran for their lives, Molly scooped into his arms. He threw her in the passenger seat as a bullet hit the body of the car next to him. Slamming the door, he was in the driver's seat in seconds. Relief flooded through him as he jolted the engine on and accelerated the car into a rapid motion. More bullets hit the car as he sped around the corner and out into the night.

He drove for hours. He avoided the motorways, he knew they would just be more pile ups like before. He took to the back roads. Molly laid flat out in the seat beside him her body wrapped in his Belstaff. The adrenaline pumped through his veins and only when he realised that they were definitely no longer in Birmingham but the Peak District did Sherlock pull the car up outside a small but sheltered cottage.

He scouted out the cottage first, ensuring that nobody was around before retrieving Molly from the car. She began to stir as the cold evening hit her as he carried her into the house.

"Sherlock." Her voice was cracked as she clung to him, her face burrowing into his neck.

"Molly, you're okay. You're safe. I promise." He held her a little tighter as he placed her down onto the sofa. She was hesitant to release herself from his hold and she whimpered as he pulled back.

"Don't leave me. Please, Sherlock." Her voice pleaded as he watched the fear in his eyes. He wished nothing more than to drive back and put a bullet into each of their thug heads.

"Let me go get you a drink and something to eat. There was some bottled water in the pantry and I think I saw some cheese and crackers back there too. Okay?" He asked her softly, his hands had cupped her small face as she closed her eyes and nodded her head. She winced slightly as his fingers touched her swollen eye.

He made his way to the pantry as he fetched a couple of bottles of water and fixed up a plate with some crackers and cheese. He returned and Molly all but snatched the water from him as she gulped it back.

"Steady. Small sips first, Molly." She lifted her eyes up to meet his and withdrew the bottle from her lips. He smiled a small smile and then offered her the plate of food. He watched as she nibbled at the cheese and crackers. It was obvious she was coming down. Her appetite was lagging, body shaking and her eyes bloodshot.

"I was impressed. Your smart thinking to leave a trail saved your life. I doubt I would have ever found you again if you hadn't." He spoke proudly as he watched her take small sips from the bottle.

"You pick up a thing or two, when your friends with a sociopathic detective." She mumbled, her shaking grew more turbulent.

It was in that moment that Sherlock wanted to cradle her in his arms. The shirt against his chest felt uncomfortable and caged. He slowly unbuttoned the stained and bloodied fabric and tossed it to the side. And like she could read his mind she pushed the plate away and crawled into his lap.

Molly laid curled in his arms until dawn broke, clinging to him like a life raft. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her face burrowed into his shoulder. He held her tight to him as she sat motionless in his arms.

"I will never let anyone hurt you like that again. I promise, Molly." He broke the silence. She had drifted in and out of sleep, but he hadn't closed his eyes once, despite the pure exhaustion that had replaced the adrenaline in his blood.

"I wish you'd left me. I wish that I had died right there under that debris." Her words sliced him apart.

"You don't mean that." He whispered into her hair as her body shook against him in withdrawal.

"I do. Because death would surely feel like heaven compared to the way I feel right now." She choked out, and the tears begun to fall.

He was speechless. He had nothing to say to the girl in his arms. He knew that it was a combination of the after effects of the drug leaving her system and the disgusting fact that her body had been abused repeatedly for three days straight, which was causing this depression.

Suddenly, his lips were against her own. He hadn't meant for it to happen. Her speech had stirred an emotion deep within that he had been disconnected from for most of his life. He kissed her like he meant it one thousand times over.

 _I care._

Was the message he relayed with his lips. She remained motionless against him. And Sherlock filled with dread as he thought he had crossed the line. It was too soon for Christ sake. Then her hands were in his hair and she was kissing him back with just as much ferocity, before he pulled away.

"I thought I was going to lose you. Again. For some reason, I was even more terrified than when Eurus threatened you. I care, Molly. For some reason I have always bloody cared." She silenced him with another chaste kiss and he melted into her. His stubble rubbed against her cheek as she pressed herself closer to him.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" She asked timidly, and he scoffed at her response.

"Molly, you're the one who has been drugged, beaten and abused for three days." He settled further into the sofa, his head fell back out of pure exhaustion.

"But you killed a man tonight." She whispered as she traced his stubble with her fingers. He knew she would be thinking about the man he murdered. She knew about Magnussen, how he hadn't hesitated to pop a bullet between his skull. He had not undertaken that task with the enraged expression in his eyes that he possessed tonight. It was a look that had scared her, he noted. But he knew she would understand why.

"Yes. And I would do it again. I told you Molly. The game has changed now. When it comes to survival it takes no prisoners." His hands bunched into the back of her hair.

She watched him as his eyes drooped, still fighting sleep as he watched her through his half hooded eyelids. She reached for the blanket draped across the back of the sofa and threw it over the pair of them. She laid down on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat for a few moments. His arms came round to cradle her and he moved position so he was now rolled onto his side, Molly tucked against the back of the sofa with her head secured protectively under his chin. She listened as his breathing steadied, and his body finally gave in to his exhaustion. She smiled as she heard the sound of birds singing, a sound she felt she hadn't heard in years, as the sun rose over the hills. She closed her eyes and gave into her own fatigue, her hands pressed up against the heart of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

So a slightly deep chapter, but I did warn you.

I'm very excited about the next couple of chapters. Major relationship developments are coming. Watch this space...

As always your comments, favourites and follows are always appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

First of all, my deepest apologies.

I am aware it has been over two months since I last updated.

I had severe's writers block, which consisted of 3 versions of this chapter all meeting a grizzly end in the "Trash" file and never resurfacing.

Basically I had a paddy for two month's until I gave myself a good shake down this weekend.

So, I would like to present the long awaited Chapter 5...

* * *

Sherlock awoke the next day to a slight throbbing in his jaw. B _loody thug_. He thought to himself. He briefly forgot about the pain when he felt a pair of lips against his neck. He glanced down to the woman molded to his front. Her long brown hair fell loose over her shoulders and her warm hands pressed firmly against his chest. He stilled for a moment. He hated himself for enjoying this moment and feel of Molly in his arms. Then his mind went back to last night. Her naked body in that bed. That last scumbag's dying breath. The fist fight. Driving on pure adrenaline. The kiss.

He prepared to berate himself internally for letting his guard down last night when she stirred against him. Sherlock tensed slowly, he unwrapped his arms from around her and shifted his weight to a sitting position on the sofa. His movements awoke her, and her brown eyes fluttered open. He looked down at her properly then. Her face was still pale and her features sunken. Withdrawal was an old enemy he had danced with before and he knew there was no worse feeling in the world than how she was feeling now.

"How are you feeling?" He asked plainly as she stretched out, her eyes were wide open now.

"Sore. Sick. Weak." She replied and rolled onto her back, twisting the blanket around her as she turned.

"I thought so. I'll be back in a moment." He walked to the kitchen and reappeared moments later with a glass of water and a fresh plate of crackers. "Try to eat and drink something. You'll be severely dehydrated and your body needs replenishment, even if it's telling you otherwise. We should go and scout for some supplies once you've eaten. I think we drove past some shops when we came in last night. We should see what we can loot." Any sense of the emotional idiot he had shown last night, was now quashed by the return of his distant and cold character. He shrugged a blue gingham shirt he had found in the washing basket in the kitchen and watched her struggle with the first cracker as he buttoned up.

"What time is it?" She asked, as she dug into the second half of her cracker.

"It's 2:15pm." Sherlock glanced down to his watch. They had fallen asleep at sunrise this morning, so at least they had had a decent amount of rest. "I'm going to see if there's any suitable trousers for you upstairs." He saw the fear in her face at the prospect of him leaving her, even for only a few moments. "I won't be long." He mumbled before backing out of the front room.

He climbed the stairs slowly and turned into the main bedroom. He began rooting through the poorly hand crafted wooden wardrobe. He suddenly recoiled at what he told her last night as he systematically searched through the hangers. How stupid he was for letting his guard down like that. The most vulnerable position he could put them both in right now was having Molly imagine her Prince Charming had turned up on his gallant steed to save her. They still had an incredibly long road ahead of them and playing happy families would only be a hindrance to their survival. He refused to let her cloud his mind and impede his judgement. Not when it came to life and death.

Molly was dressed in the white shirt she had escaped in last night when Sherlock returned from upstairs with a pair of men's grey tracksuit bottoms.

"Sorry, there's nothing more feminine. Seems the old man who lived here had been widowed for some time, even then I doubt the clothing would have been suitable." Molly took the clothes without another word and dressed in silence, Sherlock turned to give her some privacy and to fumble with the rucksack he had also found in the wardrobe.

They were about ready to leave, when Molly watched Sherlock pocket a gun into the waistband of his trousers. He turned and watched her face carefully.

"For safety." He smiled briefly, the warmth and emotion devoid on his face. The same expression was mirrored on Molly's own.

...

They stopped in the Newsagents first, which seemed to be the main food source in the small village. They made quick work of the shelves as they stashed tins, packets and anything with a long shelf life into the rucksacks. Sherlock, was internally quite pleased by their haul. But then when people are running for their lives, they usually don't tend to think about the afterwards. _A major failure in human evolution_. He concluded to himself.

They made their way to the chemist once their bags were almost full. Sherlock was stocking up on strong pain killers and first aid equipment as he glanced to Molly behind the counter. He couldn't see her face, but by the intent of her actions he could almost see her eyes darting along the rows and columns of pharmaceuticals. She shakily reached out to a box just above her head as her fingers removed it from the shelf. Sherlock walked over silently as he watched her study the package in her hands. He gulped when he saw the name on the box.

 _Levonelle._

Molly must have felt him looking as she clasped the box tightly in her hands and she glanced up towards him. He felt slightly guilty for intruding on what she clearly intended to be a private moment.

"It might be too late. But like you said, Sherlock. We're playing the game of survival now." She whispered coldly as she opened the box, popped the pill from its packet and swallowed it whole.

The repercussions of her kidnapping had not gone unthought of in Sherlock's mind. He had replayed certain situations in his head. Situations like this one. Not even he could stomach the idea of an unwanted pregnancy from a rape. Yet, there was a part of him that wondered if she would be doing the same thing right now if he had fucked her that day in the woods. He shook the thought from his mind almost as quickly as it had appeared.

...

He was grateful for the old and dilapidated gas hob as he ignited the gas with a lighter he had found in the drawer. He poured the mixed beans and chopped tomatoes into the pan. It wasn't much, but it was relatively nutritious. Molly watched him from the kitchen table, she sat cross legged on the chair her gaze distant staring into the small flame of the candle. They had barely been more than a few sentences spoke between them today. Molly seemed to seek solace in the quiet and Sherlock was more than happy to oblige her. He doubted she would have brought up the events of the previous evening anyways, he wasn't even sure how much she even remembered of it.

"I want you to train me." Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at her sudden outburst, as he continued to stir the sauce.

"Train you?" He questioned as he poured some pepper into the sauce.

"Yes. In self-defence." She stated.

"Ah." He dropped the spoon onto the counter and turned to her. She was looking out of the window now, into the dark garden, but her expression was still void. She had become so much more reserved since her abduction. More like him. He moved to sit opposite her on the small kitchen table, his knees bumped with hers and the contact caused her to turn back to him.

"Yes. You're trained in martial arts aren't you?" He nodded as he studied her across the table, her hands clasped together.

"I want you to help me become stronger. I need to become stronger. I never want to feel that helpless again. I want to be able to at least say I went down with a fight." Her voice broke, the memory of the past three days had caught up with her. A memory that would be raw for her for a while yet. They were both silent for a while as he pondered and she turned back towards the window.

"It won't be easy. And don't think I won't push you. If you want to commit to this you have to be in with both feet, as they say." She turned back to him and gave him a sad smile.

"I have nothing left to lose." Her voice echoed with emptiness.

"In that case, we will lay low here for a couple of weeks. We can reassess the situation then." He stood up awkwardly, the small table and chair were completely unsuited to his height. He steadied himself by placing his hand on the table and as he was about to turn away a small hand covered his own.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Her voice was quiet, but the emotion behind her words made up for her lack of volume.

He quickly removed his hand and proceeded to make his way back towards the hob. The skin on his left hand tingled as he stirred the sauce.

…

Her lungs felt like a large vice had squeezed the air out of her. She gasped as she registered the plummet in her body temperature and the unmistakable feeling of liquid dripping off of her skin. She opened her eyes wide to find Sherlock stood beside the bed with a now empty bucket.

"Get up. We start training now."

Molly wasn't sure whether his alarm call this morning was part of the training in order to try and rile her up or because he got some sort of kick out of it. _Or both_. She kicked back the soaking wet duvet and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Sherlock threw her the tracksuit bottoms she had left folded at the end of the bed. Luckily they had avoided the flooding.

He turned and left without another word and she heard him race down the stairs. She dressed quickly, not wanting to give Sherlock another opportunity to drown her. She glanced at the clock on the bed side table. 5.31 am. She sighed and wrung out her hair over the sink in the small en-suite and tied it up into a bun. She assessed her appearance in the mirror and winced as she lightly touched the ugly, dark bruise on her face. She knew from her expertise that it would be another week or two before the swelling reduced and the skin would heal.

By the time she had made it down stairs and into the back, Sherlock was already in the garden with his back to her. She carefully padded out of the back door. Before her foot had even left the door mat, she felt the wind move past her so swiftly and suddenly she was being held in some sort of aggressive bear hug. Sherlock was holding her from behind, his arms locked across her front. Her natural reaction was to lash out and kick.

"It's useless. You can keep kicking and thrashing, but you'll only tire more quickly leaving you vulnerable and exposed." Suddenly, she felt herself being pushed forward and she stumbled slightly to her knees, luckily cushioned by the overgrown grass below her.

"There is not time for niceness here. It's hurt or be hurt." She heard Sherlock call from behind her. She already felt irritated with him. She started to suspect this was his plan. He'd acted all day yesterday like that kiss hadn't happened. Or hoping that she was too drugged to even remember. She half expected him to return to being an emotionless prude. Why should she expect any more from him? But he'd still said those words, still told her he cared and she would only be lying to herself if his actions yesterday didn't hurt her. Then he had to go and douse her with a bucket of ice cold water.

"On your feet. It's time for your first lesson." She eyed him with daggers as he spoke, and if he noticed he was doing a pretty good job at hiding it.

By the time they had finished, the sky had turned lighter from its deep ocean blue from when she had first awoken. A light sheen covered her skin and her muscles were already starting to feel sore. Her bruised face had also taken a knock or two, but she knew Sherlock hadn't intentionally meant to hurt her. Sherlock on the other hand looked like he'd barely ran more than a few metres. His hair was slightly more dishevelled and she underestimated just how fit he was for a man who's diet had once consisted of mainly deep fried potatoes.

"You need to work on your core. Being able to leverage your weight, especially against attackers who will most likely be taller than you, is key to defending yourself." He folded his arms across his chest. She had only noticed the light grey t-shirt he wore with the words _Tractor Convention 1999_ written in a childish font, clung a little tightly to his tall and lean frame. "I know you used to do yoga. Try and remember a few moves and I advise you practice them." He turned and left her alone in the garden, but she could hear him in the kitchen fumbling around moments after.

She turned and picked up the towel Sherlock had left out over the garden bench against the wall of the house and laid it down on the grass. She sat down and commenced with the start position and inhaled and exhaled deeply. As she attempted to clear her mind, she realised that she hadn't thought about the nightmare of the past few days in the time that she had trained with him. There was no fear, no overwhelming anxiety and she let out a smile to herself, before she closed her eyes and inhaled once more.

* * *

I would say poor Molly, but Miss Hooper doesn't want your sympathy.

Our girl is getting ready to kick arse.

Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated.


End file.
